


I Dream of Jonny

by BlueEyedArcher



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Genie/Djinn, Alternate Universe - Magic, Ascalon Club, Blood Magic, Brotherhood of Saint Paul's Stole, Comedy, Deceit, Fluff and Angst, Genie!Jonathan, Jonathan is just an old genie, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mild Smut, Myrddin is also a genie, Tricksters, Vampires still exist don't worry, Wishes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:34:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26382715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEyedArcher/pseuds/BlueEyedArcher
Summary: Beware the Cask of the ChampionA powerful entity resides withinMake a deal at your leisure but be not fooled by its tricky words and elusive promises.For those that dare call upon it, I offer you this warning.Measure your wits before speaking or lest they be your grave.-Usher Talltree, Primate of the Brotherhood of Saint Paul's Stole
Relationships: Geoffrey McCullum & Jonathan Reid, Geoffrey McCullum/Jonathan Reid
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a random thought that popped into my head when i was supposed to be sleeping of what if instead of Jonathan becoming an ekon, he was a genie that landed in the possession of the Guard of Priwen by their accumulation of many "useless" relics from the Brotherhood of St Paul's Stole.
> 
> This will slowly be updated over time while I continue to work on my personal original story project The Decay. (I'm almost finished and will return to writing McReid soon I promise.)
> 
> In the meantime, enjoy! Please leave a comment and kudos on what you think!

"All these ancient relics don't mean shite if ya can't bloody well use them." Geoffrey grumbled as he pawed through the numerous dusty old tomes, trunks and lock boxes of scriptures, scrolls, rusty old daggers and padlocked cases filled with just about every useless bauble and trinket imaginable that the Brotherhood of St. Paul's Stole kept like crazy old cat ladies. They claim to be scholars but they felt more like magpies with hoarding habits and The Guard of Priwen _inherited_ that bloody habit when it broke away from the organization to stand on their own front.

"You'd think with all this junk, they'd have kept a ledger or catalog. _Something_ mildly useful." He had sifted through four hours of useless items already, slogging through enough dust to give him allergies despite not already having any and leaving him in dire need of a bath and a new change of clothes. His palms were tacky with grime and dirt, and whatever weird black sludge that was on his forearms. _Oh, wait, it's just grease from the hinges of a trunk._ He sighed in exasperation and tossed his hands in the air in defeat.

What a great leader he was, having inherited a big heaping pile of shite upon Carl's passing. He had hoped his mentor had a bit more sense than Stone did and at least _organized_ the clutter to some semblance of understanding but Carl appeared to have as much sense about organization as a child did about cleaning their bedroom. It was all just shoved into the nearest closet or attic and forgotten for some other poor sap to step into and be avalanched by the abominable masses of pure chaos.

He looked around at the hours of work that amounted to all of maybe three piles categorized into clusters. There were the useless artifacts that had no other point than the Stole keeping them for the sheer purpose of gloating. The knowledge they contained was common among many and even the most green horned recruit was aware of it. The next pile was questionable and by that, it meant Geoffrey couldn't decipher what it meant exactly and wasn't in the mindset to toss it until he discovered otherwise. If it just so happened to be a recipe book in Latin, he was going to storm into Swansea's office and beat him with it the next time he saw him. The final and smallest pile consisted of actually useful items which also included the Blood of King Arthur and several tomes about the ancient vampires that existed in England. It had quickly become a Priwen hit list for the Great Hunt and would suffice in cross referencing for the next one in the future.

He elected to give one last box a look before calling it quits for the day and scavenging the kitchen for some tasty morsel to fill his ravenous gut which had been growling since O'Connor brought him a pot of tea two hours ago. Speaking of…

Glancing around, Geoffrey became keenly aware of the now missing and potentially lost teapot and platter that may have gotten mixed up in the mess. He was not in the mood for searching and considered the loss for the moment while he flicked open the next container. There were faded notes, a bundle of old letters and an indecipherable formula that looked like it had something to do with an old form of alchemy given the sketches in the margins. At the bottom of the box was an object that stole Geoffrey's interest.

It was wrapped in a delicate swathe of red satin that unwound to expose a vessel no bigger than a flask with intricate foreign markings engraved carefully into the sides. It was a mix of what appeared to be silver plating, iron base and a decorative ivory finish with a leather cord that had turned brittle with time and corroded away. A small note was scrawled hastily and tied like a tag looped around the neck of the vessel.

_Beware the Cask of the Champion_

_A powerful entity resides within_

_Make a deal at your leisure but be not fooled by its tricky words and elusive promises._

_For those that dare call upon it, I offer you this warning._

_Measure your wits before speaking or lest they be your grave._

  
  


Geoffrey would have heeded such an outlandish warning by superstitious men such as the Stole, had the writing not appeared to be from the very same man who currently sat upon its head as Primate. He trusted Usher Talltree about as far as he could throw him, and his forced promises of neutrality were a continuous bane to Priwen's intentions. Maybe the warning had been left to keep people like Swansea from rubbing their sticky paws all over it, but Geoffrey was not one to fall short when scolded by false concerns. He was the leader of the Guard of Priwen after all. 

He hunted beasts far more powerful and much more devious than any other. He doubted this fable in a slightly rusty bottle would cast an ekon in any lesser light, and even so, the warning held the promise that any who unleashed it would control it. In the sense of wielding a weapon capable of decimating the Ascalon club, that was too much of a promise not to let his curiosity drive his hand.

Stealing himself for trouble, Geoffrey reached for the cap that kept the vessel sealed all this time and pried...and pulled and tugged and wrenched and ground his teeth as the insidious thoughts that this was possibly Talltree leaving all of Priwen the worst possible prank in the existence of the Guard and Stole combined. He scowled at the vessel as the cap continued to refuse to budge even as he used the hem of his shirt to find purchase, securing a firm hold as he cranked, yanked and twisted until his palm was red, aching and peeling where the tip of the cap had dug in and left a superficial cut on the surface.

This was absolutely ridiculous. He reasoned that either it was a farce all along _or_ Talltree had been wise enough to somehow seal the cask shut tight to avoid it falling into the hands of anyone else. A wise move where Swansea was concerned but Geoffrey was not a man thwarted easily.

Hopping to his feet, he abandoned his work without a second thought as he hastily made his way from the overly cluttered archives back down the hallway towards his office where he sought out the tool kit he often used for maintaining his crossbow. A proper enough wrench would do the trick, he was certain.

It took a few attempts but Geoffrey's delight sparked when he felt the cap start to give. He swore he heard the crack of some sort of substance that had been used to seal the threads, a few shards of dark debris sprinkled his palm as he gave it one final tug. The tool slipped, the grip it held failed as the metal clamp broke. Geoffrey shouted in alarm as the piece bit into the webbing of his fingers, laying the skin open with a deep gash. He hissed, dropping the vessel and tool on his desk as he hunted for a rag to stem the blood flow.

Pain seared through his palm in a throbbing ache as he grasped the desk drawer and dragged it open in search of his first aid kit. Well, actually, that was a very generous description of what was in reality just a bottle of whiskey and a clean roll of bandages that he shoved into a compartment once when he cut his forearm while practicing with his sword and just forgot about it. Divine foresight he'd like to call it but in truth it was just carelessness on his part.

He succeeded in his efforts, letting out a triumphant. _"Ah-ha!"_ When a voice tsked him from behind. Geoffrey stiffened and whirled around to find not one of his men, but a stranger perched comfortably upon a chair, legs crossed at the knee and hands folded, an elegant presence that looked out of place in the shoddy piece of shite room that was the office of their base. The water stained and yellowed wallpaper, and old frayed and faded cushions of what used to be a decent leather office chair failed to shun the image of perfection that was framed in a charmingly handsome face with eyes so blue it would make the tides jealous and an innocent smile so charismatically disarming it just furthered those red alarms blaring like an air raid siren in Geoffrey's mind.

The elegant disposition did not, however, hide the ragtag well, _rags_ that the man wore. The old trousers worn thin at the knees and a white linen button up that appeared to have seen far better days. It was faded and discolored and was that _blood?_ He couldn't exactly place why that fact disturbed him more than it probably should but it tickled at his thoughts and told him this man was dangerous. Something to be avoided at all costs. The static shiver that raced across his skin snapped in the air like an invisible storm brewing in the room beyond Geoffrey's limited gaze as he tunnel visioned into this stranger's presence.

The cask was sitting before him, the cap now dangling by a delicate chain and a dark fluid leaked out like ink staining the desk surface.

"You really should take better care of that or it will get infected. I suggest properly sterilizing it first before bandaging. It doesn't appear deep enough to require stitches." The man tutted gently as if he didn't just _manifest_ in the middle of Geoffrey's office seconds ago.

"Who are you?" The hunter hazarded the question, searching the face that was equal parts handsome and haunting from the not quite human smoothness that he equated with ekons and the too clear coloring of his eyes that was as unsettling as gazing at a specter, one of which returned a similar look of equal studiousness that put Geoffrey on edge and made the hair on his neck stand up.

"I'm not entirely sure what you would call me." The man answered almost bashful at the question as if his lack of knowledge was an embarrassment on it's own. "I can tell you, however, that I am sworn to offer you a service as per the contract we've just established."

"Contract? What contract?" Geoffrey barked, gripping the clean rag in his fist as red blossomed across the white fabric in startling brightness.

"The one you just sealed in blood." The man gestured towards the vessel and shook his head slowly. "Oh dear, you were unaware of the contract."

"Not exactly, no."

"It can't be avoided I'm afraid once blood has been shed." The man sighed in exasperation as if this were a common problem like getting directions wrong or screwing up a recipe by substituting sugar with salt. It only furthered the aggravation Geoffrey was feeling swell like a building storm inside himself.

"What sort of services?" That sounded like a loaded question.

"Help." The man began, giving a small roll of his hand in the air as he went. "As preposterous as it may sound, I can offer you wishes. Only three and there are stipulations."

"Like?" What kind of fool does he look like? Geoffrey scoffed at the ridiculous thought already. This had to be some fanciful jest, or a very crude trick.

"No killing for one. Murder is terribly unsightly and immoral."

"You don't say." The sarcasm was heavy with this one indeed. But apparently went over the illustrious man's head as he continued.

"No wishing for more wishes and no bringing back the dead." He added. "These are rules all can agree on for sheer fairness and ethical reasoning, yes?"

"Sure." Geoffrey snorted as he nudged the drawer of his desk shut with his hip, now brandishing the half full bottle of whiskey as he dampened the cleaner end of the rag to apply to his wound.

Geoffrey was more than aware that this _entity_ didn't know who exactly it was talking to. The hunter killed for a living, dealt with the undead nightly and had never seen _fairness_ in action in his entire life. He doubted it would start now with what sounded like a contract made to keep snobby toffs from getting too much of a leg up on everyone else.

"Oh, I almost forgot." Geoffrey rolled his eyes as the man continued. "No forcing anyone to fall in love."

"That a common problem for you uh, specters? People resorting to necromancy and love potions to get their way?" It was punctuated with a chuckle of amusement but the resounding note seemed to have flown over the being's head as he frowned.

"Well, yes. Quite problematic. Morality is still a necessity in this case. A bargain for a human soul so to speak if one would put it poetically. A clear conscience for ourselves in the end as well."

"That almost makes you sound human." That thought made him take a double take at the man and note the perturbed look of confusion on his face. As if he had acquired the smallest inkling of a memory he just couldn't seem to grasp. The distress that flashed across his eyes and the subtle shift as his shoulders caved in defeat were a sense Geoffrey couldn't shake off with sarcastic jabs and blunt ended words.

"I suppose." The man spoke solemnly, his gaze averted to the flask still staining Geoffrey's desk with whatever dark fluid it contained. It was a lost cause at this point, causing the hunter to huff and plop down into his seat as he focused on the stinging pain in his wound and the monotony of wrapping it in clean bandages.

"You got a name?" Geoffrey inquired.

"Not that I can remember." There was a note of similar distress in his voice that hadn't missed the hunter's ears.

"Shite. Maybe it's written down somewhere. There was a bunch of junk I found with yer uh, cask. Might have a clue." Geoffrey turned his hand over to inspect the shoddy but decent enough job he did with the wrapping and sighed. "Name's Geoffrey McCullum."

"It's a pleasure to be of service Mr. McCullum."

"I highly doubt that." He snorted.


	2. Chapter 2

Geoffrey left the specter to his own devices while he took a brief moment to properly clean up and get a change of clothes. By the time he sat back down at his desk, he discovered the spilled fluid was gone, the cask was capped shut and now sitting upright next to a meal tray left behind by O'Connor. The hunter gazed around his office in search of the offending specter but found none in his vicinity drawing a frown between his brows as he turned his whole attention on the box the aforementioned vessel came from.

The notes and the formulas, upon closer inspection through the very hard to read lettering that went off in long interconnected flourishes that looked more like squiggles than actual words, would start to make sense slowly. Geoffrey could make out particular words such as various old medical instruments and the Latin phrasing he commonly associated with certain old world medicines that also worked wonders as poisons against leeches and their ilk.

Eventually he ran out of readable pages among them very quickly and turned his attention towards the letters. They appeared to be written by two different women, at first glance Geoffrey assumed they were love letters, but upon further reading he realized that the most frequent were from a Mary Reid, which was signed in closing as a beloved sister while the latter letters were detailed from the words of a beloved mother, Emelyne Reid. Both of which were addressed for Jonathan Reid.

Over what seemed like the passing of several hours, Geoffrey read each one while he ate his supper and in between organizing the mess that had become his desk. He eventually settled in late into the night with a lamp light and a pot of tea as he pieced together the story of the sad and lonely Dr. Jonathan Reid, a man who loved his family just as much, if not more than he loved his profession. He appeared to have been trying to find a cure for some disease that was sweeping through Paris and London, causing his travels while researching the problem to be halted several times by strict quarantine laws. A missed holiday with his family and a delayed coming home were mourned by both the mother and sister in their letters as they fretted and henned him in words.

Geoffrey's eyes were beginning to burn when he found the last letter from the sister, informing Dr. Reid that their elderly mother had contracted the sickness and had passed on in the night.

_I trust in you, my sweet brother, to set aside your search for this elusive vessel of knowledge you've spoken so much about in your letters and come home. I've lost everyone else, Jonny, don't make me have to bury my brother too._

It was signed and dated but the ink was smudged causing him to hazard a guess around 1665 or 66? The ink was smeared on the last digit making it hard to read but it was there.

"A vessel of knowledge?" Geoffrey mused as he shared a brief glance at the cask. "It wouldn't surprise me if that's exactly what this man was searching for. But if he found it, how did this end up in the Stole's possession?"

It wouldn't hurt to check into it. If the man was a doctor, he assumed Swansea could be useful for once and shed some light on the topic of discussion. The impudent fool had some uses from time to time and medical expertise was regretfully one of his only talents.

With the sun on the horizon, beaming soft golden rays through the windows as the day beckoned him towards his comfortable bed, Geoffrey let himself be lured away to the warm covers and stiff mattress. He plopped back down into them, shifting to get comfortable with only the odd quiet rustling as the blankets settled around him to break the stagnant office air. His gaze fixed on the strange cask still perched on his desk like an inauspicious decoration. He was beginning to question whether or not the specter even happened the more he stared at it. Maybe he inhaled something that caused him to hallucinate and now that it was out of his system it was just a normal useless trinket like everything else that Carl hoarded.

Shoving the thought away with a growl, he tossed and turned and rolled over, planting himself so he stared pointedly at the water stained wall, paint chipped away with time and gouged by the nights when he threw himself into bed without any care to properly undress as the buckles and straps constricted his weary form, fingers fumbling blindly before surrendering in defeat.

The next evening he found himself on the doorstep of Pembroke hospital, no more well rested or enthusiastic than he had been the night prior, but this time he had a purpose on a far more personal note as to why he was here. It was a rare moment when Geoffrey willingly came to the hospital that wasn't directly related to his work. He supposed he could twist it to be so, in some long reaching extension, it was related to Priwen and their duties as the defenders of Britain, it was up to him to ensure that no beast or even specter left its accursed grasp upon the land, or more specifically, this city.

The staff milled about as per their usual routine with the occasional wary gaze directed in his vicinity with closely guarded gossip passing between pursed lips. He ignored the very pointed look of disapproval from Nurse Branagan as she halted him by the front desk. Typically he wouldn’t even bother humoring her attempt and often would step around her to briskly climb the stairs to Swansea’s office but today he felt lenient enough.

“If you intend on bringing trouble to our doors, the least you could do was offer a common courtesy and abide by our rules while you are here.” Branagan harped like the long winded old bat she was. Geoffrey wasn’t one to lend an eye to bias, especially in his field of expertise. Men and women didn’t really differ in their ability to kill leeches, and he supposed that was the same in an illustrious field such as this, the only line in the sand that stopped Branagan from wearing a fancy white coat was the societal expectations instilled by bitter prideful toffs that didn’t take it kindly when a woman proved she had more muster than their country clubs.

So when he says he doesn't like her, it isn’t due to the fact her uniform enforces skirts over jackets, but simply because her continuous crowing and nitpicking of him and his ilk ruffled more than a few feathers and was a particular pain in his arse. A pain of which, Swansea had a bad habit of cowering behind with that smug self-satisfied look as he played the innocent little Administrator with the greater good in his best interest.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He pressed between his teeth and waited for her narrow gaze to turn away. She stared him down the length of his nose before conceding with a look of increased disapproval if that were even possible. The foul look she directed at his back as he passed wasn’t easily missed as she folded her hands before herself and stormed off to find something more productive to do than squawk at him.

Geoffrey took the steps in quick succession, his boots stomping down the worn out carpeting at the top as he made his way in swift strides towards the door. Knocking was a courtesy that Swansea did not deserve in the slightest so Geoffrey felt no guilt in shoving the door wide open without any pomp and circumstance. The dramatic flourish may have tickled at that confident smile, embellished with a cocky twist that he carefully schooled with dry amusement as Swansea fumbled hopelessly with the skeleton in his grasp. The wide eyed look was a key note that the hunter had succeeded in startling his prey, the paralyzed shock was delayed in its quick dismissal as Swansea scrambled for a recovery.

"Just when I was beginning to have hope that you have finally learned some manners, you proceed to disappoint me, McCullum." Swansea jabbed critically, setting the skull aside and fussing with the slightest indiscrepancy that was the placement of the clutter on his desk. A haphazard attempt to look bored with his presence already.

"I'd fear the day when you actually approve of my activities." Geoffrey scoffed. "Means you finally grew some sense in that thick skull o' yers. It'd make ya a genuine threat for once." The biting barbs were dulled in comparison to their usual sharp edges parries of verbal combat. Geoffrey was as keen with the weapon that was his tongue as he was the sword that hung heavy on his hip, a cumbersome but comfortable weight that swayed gently with his easy swagger towards the desk.

"What do you want, McCullum? You'll find no quarry here."

"What can you tell me about a Dr. Jonathan Reid?" Geoffrey placed his palms against the table and leaned in. Swansea stared at him with disbelief as he leaned back in his seat, mouth crooked in dismay before he quickly closed it, cleared his throat and straightened up.

"You're a woodsman McCullum." Swansea shot back, though Geoffrey didn't miss the way the Administrator's eyes sparked with recognition. "What in heaven's sake would you want with a scholar? Particularly a dead one."

"Color me curious. Was doing some Spring cleaning when I came across the name. Maybe it was my mistake in believing he was of any importance." Geoffrey straightened up, keenly aware of the little twitch of eagerness in Swansea's posture. The way he stirred with the impulse to correct him and the outrage that swelled at Geoffrey's dismissal of someone potentially immensely important to whatever toff fueled community that praised him.

"I will have you know that Dr. Reid was a man to be respected and adored for his work." Swansea blurted, leaning into his desk as he folded his hands in front of himself, trying to quell his enthusiasm as much as possible. "He was a foremost medical mind during the Great Plague of London and pioneered a new technique on the study of blood itself that went beyond the farfetched use of leeches and the outdated practices of simple _blood letting._ "

"Really?"

"Truly." Swansea confirmed. "Tragically, he could not finish his work."

"Why is that?" Geoffrey could hazard a guess but why bother assuming when Swansea looked absolutely thrilled to assault him with the information willingly.

"Dr. Reid was studying abroad when he received horrid news about a family loss. He put his research on hold and supposedly made arrangements to return to London but he never returned. He disappeared in 1665." Geoffrey watched as Swansea rose from his seat and made his way towards a filing cabinet stuffed with old records and archives.

"The theory is that he contracted the same illness he sought so desperately to cure and passed away before he could make it back. One of his students drew this while Dr. Reid taught in Paris." Geoffrey wasn't expecting the detailed sketch of a man in old scholar's vestments, nothing at all like the uniforms of medical professionals today. Yet, it wasn't the outfit that made him pause as he inspected the delicate charcoal drawing, but the familiar face captured within. A similarly haunted and apologetic expression that he found staring at him over his desk the night earlier.

On the back of the sketch was an inscription that Geoffrey could barely make out. 

_C. Ashbury, Paris, 1661_

_Dr. Jonathan Reid_

"I recall the Stole had taken an interest in him, but I'm not sure how successful that had been." Swansea sighed wistfully.

"What would the Brotherhood want with him?" Geoffrey snorted, handing the sketch back to Swansea who took it in hand as carefully as if it were the very Stole itself in which they were named. He gingerly returned it to its frame within the file cabinet.

"He was a scientist, a brilliant one at that and a compassionate man. He had talent and potential, not to mention a forward thinking mind unafraid of questioning what was to pin down the truth." Swansea clapped his hands together and turned on Geoffrey with a look of intense scrutiny as if he had insulted the very name in which he stood.

"Tragic that such a smart toff didn't want to join your club." Geoffrey sniped, turning on his heel to leave. "I'll be back again soon."

"A courtesy call wouldn't hurt next time." Swansea called after with exasperation as Geoffrey stalked out the door. His thoughts were preoccupied with the realization that he had a very real spirit on his hands. The presence of dead men normally made him bristle but in recent years O'Connor's open admission of spirits passing through Priwen all the time was growing on him and in a less horrific way than it first had. Being told that Carl often visited and by visited, O'Connor meant stand over Geoffrey's bed while he slept or loomed over his shoulder like a stooping raven prepared to caw in his ear while he rummaged through reports, was as unsettling as one might think. Geoffrey may have started a trend of sleeping in safe houses for a few weeks after that to avoid the uncomfortable knowledge and that slithering paranoia in his guts. Now, he wasn't quite numb to it but it slipped his mind often enough that it didn't bother him as much as it used to. Either that or O'Connor was finally rubbing off on him despite his efforts to avoid it.

It was strange though, if this Dr. Reid couldn't remember who he was or why he was trapped in a flask, the better question may be who had done it to him? 


End file.
